


Child Soldier

by Narroch



Category: Gundam 00
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-30
Updated: 2010-11-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 20:18:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narroch/pseuds/Narroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Child soldiers were the best, their lives cheaper than the bullets they fired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Child Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this back in '10 on fanfiction.net. Moved it over here to save it from the Purge of Filth.

Ali usually had enough money from his spoils of war to hire a night walker, or sometimes his spoils of war _were_ that exact pleasure, forcefully taken without an exchange. But this husk of a city had long since been burned out before he and his roving band of jihad volunteer orphans came upon it; it had little to offer besides shade from the unforgiving midday sun, and absolutely nothing in the way of more carnal desires. Ali wasn't one to be needy, since he usually _took_ what he wanted before it got to this point, but recently the net had been tightening in this region and people were fleeing from the country in droves, the land was bleeding out from near constant warfare and the earth was practically infertile from all the shells decimating it. There were no crops, no water, no oil, and no _women_.

The families were always the first to go, wealthy ones were long gone, and even the struggling middle class had given up and moved on. Only the poor famished ones remained, and those were casually picked off by Ali's mental genocide so he could ensnare the scarred survivors. Child soldiers were the _best_. They were easy to recruit, easy to control, required no pay except an occasional glance and smile to nourish their starved neglect and, best of all, they followed his every direction without questioning. And if one ever did gain the courage, or the age, to start to question him or his directions, child soldiers were also easily _expendable_.

Bullets were cheap but their lives were cheaper still. The rebellious ones were often jettisoned through violence, either pushed to the front of the lines in the next attack or stoned to death by the other brainwashed children under Ali's order. The rare boys that tried to fight against Ali himself were easily bested, choked, and discarded. He would often burn their bodies for incurring his wrath, the other children hanging back, covering their noses and mouths with their tattered clothes to try and block the smell of sizzling human flesh.

Ali never needed to warn them what would happen if they disobeyed. The acrid smell was tattooed into their collective senses, shocked into their systems so that they could manage nothing more than a muted nod.

So when Ali's eyes sifted through his rag-tag army of castoffs and settled on the shining ebony hair of a boy no older than eight, he knew the child would obey his every word, despite how deranged the order might be. His face was pinched with malnutrition and his startling scarlet eyes were already haunted with the eerie fog of shell shock. He knew it wouldn't be long before this particularly bloodthirsty soldier would break and join the others on the smoldering refuse heap. Ali figured he could find more uses for his tool before he hit snapping point and went rogue and became less than utilitarian.

Ali nodded at the boy, beckoning him with his eyes and the child scrambled over quickly, grateful for any scrap of attention tossed his way. The other children tracked his movement sullenly, pensive jealousy rimmed in their eyes. It was easy to control them when their every childish thought was so transparent. They thought this one boy was getting special treatment, being singled out for something when Ali, as a rule, only ever addressed them as a collective.

Their petty ignorance tugged a wry smile from the normally impassive man. If only they knew of the difference between a quick soothing gaze of acknowledgment and an adult's predatory stare that lingered too long. They knew nothing of the bubble of poison burning in his loins.

The boy staggered up to him, breathless, eyes shining despite the trauma they had witnessed, and he drew him effortlessly into his tent with one strong arm. Once inside the makeshift shelter, sweltering with the claustrophobic smell of goat hide that he had been forced to use, Ali settled back and let his eyes wander uninhibited, taking in the dirty yet unblemished flesh, the pouting lips hanging full like ripened date plums, framed by a face still soft and round with traces of baby fat despite the purely adult reality in which he lived in. The child could almost be called pretty if it weren't for those strange unblinking crimson eyes.

"Turn around and kneel." Ali ordered without preamble. To his credit, only a small frown showed the boy's hesitation as his body complied immediately. Ali gripped the back of his neck and pushed forward, slowly but powerfully, so he ended up on his hands and knees. Neither one made a noise as his cloth belt was brusquely yanked off nor as his pants were drawn down. Only a high pitched whine escaped the child's lips as a calloused hand cupped his exposed rear; Ali simply tightened his grip on the thin neck and it was the only warning the boy needed. He fell silent once again, even as Ali drizzled strong-smelling liquid between the child's legs.

Ali at least had the consciousness to feel vaguely disgusted with himself for what he was doing, but the drowsy heat made it hard to care beyond that. All he knew was that a boy's small thighs, slippery with gun oil, were as good as any woman he might find, and they were even _better_ than a woman with the certain knowledge that there were none of the latter to be had.

He sat up, leaned over the boy, who had now begun to tremble but still didn't make a sound, and let his ripe erection slide gratefully between the thin space of his clenched thighs. The boy's fingers gripped tightly into the prayer rug that composed the floor of Ali's wretched temporary abode. The fabric was for decorative purposes only of course, the rich pattern ransacked from a believer's home and now splayed beneath sin without even the dignity of at least being oriented toward Mecca.

Ali let his rhythm build slowly. It had been so long he knew it would end too quickly if he pushed it. Letting both hands settle on the sharp hip bones, small protruding reminders of hunger, Ali pressed the legs together to increase the friction. His cock dragged wonderfully between them, soft and wet and tight all at once, even the yielding texture of hairless prepubescent genitalia gave him a deranged sort of pleasure.

As he rutted against the boy he began kneading the smell pert ass in front of him, enjoying it's distinctly male tautness, evident in even a child. He pulled the cheeks apart, they weren't even large enough to be called a handful, and eyed the tight puckered hole appreciatively. Hips continuing to swivel idly, Ali wondered if it would be possible to fit himself inside and pressed his thumb against the opening to test it, using pure force to push the dry digit into the impossibly tight channel. The boy finally made a noise, a sound halfway between a sob and a muffled scream, and Ali decided he could at least allow that much as he jerked his thumb in time with his thrusts, a stunted yet painful echo.

Despite trying his best to hold back, Ali did not last long at all. The baby soft thighs encasing his cock and the tempting, clenching vice around his finger were firing off waves of pleasure made all the more intense by their very taboo nature. He felt his peak swelling up within him and he began to thrust animalistically, pulling his thumb out to grab the thighs with both hands, gripping tight enough to leave stark bruises and shoving violently enough to send the boy falling to brace himself on his elbows. He let out a shuddering groan as he came, spilling himself in several long spurts onto the holy carpet. The boy held himself rigid as his legs caught the edge of it.

Finally he pulled out with a sigh, tucking himself back into his robes and making himself decent. He reclined and dragged the damp tangle of his hair back off his face. The boy didn't move from his spot on the spoiled prayer rug, only going so far as to sit up and lean back onto his heels so his long shirt slid down to cover his damp rear. Ali noticed how he self-consciously kept his thighs apart, not letting the slicked and dirtied surfaces touch. It was almost cute.

"What's your name boy?" Ali asked once he was sated. It was payment for services rendered; rather than money or food, he was giving the child something just as valuable: individuality within his faceless war-mongering commune.

The boy jerked, as though waking up from a deep sleep, and turned around to face Ali.

"Soran." He mumbled quietly, finally looking up to make eye contact. Ali thought he saw something flash there in that moment, a sharp glint of vindictiveness, but it was lost just as quickly as the boy submissively dropped his eyes again. Still, Ali recognized even that briefest shimmer; it was the look of a man wanting revenge, rather than a boy accepting abuse. No matter how small it was Ali knew that resentment would fester and putrefy until it was purged and cleansed through the fires of revenge. A hassle he simply didn't want to deal with.

"Next time we engage, I want you to go with the older boys. You will have the honor of fighting against the demonic mobile suits of our enemy."Ali responded glibly. He turned and rustled through his bags.

"Here's your gun." Ali tossed the artillery at the Soran, watching him falter to catch it with shaking arms, the weapon obviously far too large for his trembling frame. "Use it wisely; you are now holding the righteous arm of god."

Ali stared him down, knowingly exuding alpha male vibes to make his point clear. If Soran was going to shoot him, now was the time. But as he expected, he had called Soran's bluff and watched smugly as the boy simply let his gaze roll to the floor, cradling the weapon as though he truly believed it was something divine.

"Now, get out of my tent." Ali ordered, continuing to stare nonplussed as Soran struggled to pull up his pants with one hand while gripping the heavy gun with the other. As the boy stumbled through the flap into the blinding sun Ali wondered just how many vendettas he could engender and send out into the world before one was finally strong enough to catch up with him. He smiled to himself, feeling confident that Soran was one victim he wouldn't have to worry about.


End file.
